Lieder ohne Worte Songs Without Words
by Ellex
Summary: Rodney loses his voice and is kidnapped. Warning: Torture scene. Lots of hc. COMPLETE


Title: Lieder ohne Worte (Songs without Words)

Author: Ellex

Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate: Atlantis. Like you couldn't tell.

Feedback: Better than mascarpone (which I tried today for the first time. Yum!)

Summary: Rodney loses his voice and is kidnapped. Torture scene and lots of h/c to follow.

A/N: "Lieder ohne Worte" is a series of short compositions written for piano by composer Felix Mendelssohn (1809-1847). Any dedicated piano student would be familiar with these beautiful "songs without words". The chapter titles are taken from the titles of several of these works.

Before anyone asks, I don't play piano, but I do listen to a lot of classical music.

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**Contemplation**

Someone stuck one of those ten thousand year old dead trees in my lab.

It must have been there for a while before I noticed it. The thing was tucked into an out-of-the-way corner. I started watering it just to see what would happen. I read somewhere that plant seeds can remain viable for centuries. If the plant hasn't simply crumbled to dust in ten thousand years – well, who knows?

And it paid off, too. Last week I noticed buds on it. Now it has leaves. They're unusual leaves, a sort of pale bluish-green like verdigris, wide and flat like tropical plants.

And they smell heavenly. Like lilacs.

Yeah, I know. So my favorite flower is lilac. So I even _have_ a favorite flower. How manly of me.

But my piano teacher had a huge lilac bush in her yard, right outside the window. In the summer she would open all the windows to let the breeze in, and her house would fill with the scent of the flowers.

My happiest memories of childhood are the afternoons spent in that house, and they're permeated with the memory of scent: the sweet perfume of lilacs in summer, the clean, earthy smell of potting soil in spring, pumpkin pie and fresh-baked ginger snaps in fall, and the sharp fragrance of pine in winter.

I pull off a leaf and rub it gently between my fingers, releasing more of the scent. Now I'll smell like flowers all day, but I don't care what anyone might say. The privilege of breathing in something that wonderful all day is worth it.

**Agitation**

I can't speak. I can't _speak_!

Not a word. Not a sound. I can't even whisper.

Sheppard is cracking all kinds of stupid jokes about it. I think he's trying to distract me, keep me from panicking. It's annoying, but effective, and I do appreciate it even as I'm glaring daggers at him.

He came into my lab earlier. What for, I don't know, I think he was bored and decided to occupy himself by pestering me. When I tried to tell him to get lost, nothing came out.

At first he thought I was playing a practical joke on him. It was a good idea – I wish I'd thought of it myself, wish this really _was_ a practical joke. I think I convinced him when I grabbed his arm and shook him in pure frustration. He keeps rubbing his arm, like it's sore. I didn't think I was that strong.

What the – why the hell are you shining a light in my_ eyes_, Carson! There's nothing wrong with my eyes, it's my – oh, _now _you want to look down my throat. No, it doesn't hurt. No, I didn't eat anything out of the ordinary. No, nothing hurts. Except my head. Yes, Carson, I have a headache, can you blame me? This is incredibly aggravating.

Oh sure, laugh it up. Everyone make fun of Rodney, now that he can't talk back. Word certainly travels fast, there's a crowd outside the infirmary, waiting to see if it's true. Well, not a crowd, exactly. It's just Elizabeth, Ford and Teyla. And here comes Zelenka, and Kavanagh right behind him. And now Grodin. What am I, a sideshow freak?

Oh. Oh, how kind. Kavanagh is lending me his little 12x6 whiteboard and erasable marker, so I won't waste paper trying to communicate. I made fun of him for needing to write down equations when solving them. I feel bad now. I'll have to figure out a way to make it up to him. Put him in charge of a project, or something.

What? What smell? I don't –

Oh. _That_ smell. Here, I put the bruised leaf in my pocket. It's off one of those ten thousand year old dead trees.

I _know_ they're dead. There's one in my lab. It came back to life. Well, I _watered_ it, stupid.

Elizabeth is calling one of the botanists to come and examine it. And Carson says there's apparently nothing wrong with me. Hello? I can't _talk_. That seems pretty wrong to me.

Gah. Yes, I knew you'd want to take blood. That doesn't mean I have to like it.

Are you done? Can I go – no, I'm not going to lie around the infirmary. I feel fine. I might as well get back to work. I don't need to be able to talk to work, and the way it piles up is nothing short of –

I do _not_ need a babysitter, Carson. Oh, now you're all ganging up on me. Fine, fine, who's it going to be?

**Reverie**

As much as Rodney talks, you wouldn't think he'd have such an expressive face.

But he does.

A lifted eyebrow, a twist of those thin lips, is just as eloquent, if not more so, than his voice.

The words get in the way. Once you learn to read his face, you see the real Rodney.

You see the fear and anxiety that he hides with snark. You see the worry in his eyes, the way he cares more than he wants to.

You even see the way his face lights up when he's thinking, the excitement and sheer joy of finding the answers. The quiet satisfaction when he can see the universe working the way it's supposed to.

You see how very much he wants to please, to be liked, even though he does his best to hide it. You see how much he's been hurt in the past.

It's amazing how much more he says when he can't speak.

**The Departure**

Having John Sheppard as my sometime shadow for the last couple of days hasn't been nearly as bad as I thought it would be. He's actually remarkably patient when he makes the effort.

Okay, I know I have no room to talk. Patience is hardly one of my strong suits. But I've made an effort, too. I've kind of had to, what with the whole losing my voice thing.

Actually, after the first round of teasing, everyone has been pretty nice. I overheard Bates telling Sheppard that I was a pretty cool guy when I wasn't making snide remarks. Sheppard said he kind of missed the snark.

What the hell is snark? I've never heard that word before. I asked Elizabeth - I can't even remember how many languages she's supposed to know, but she'd never heard that word before. I asked all over, and finally Ford told me what it meant.

It's what you do, he said. That didn't make any sense at all, and I said – well, I wrote – so.

Apparently, my 'snide remarks' are snark. Get it? Snide: sn. Remark: ark. Sn – ark. Snark.

That's actually rather clever.

So here I am, on another planet, thinking about Sheppard and the fact that he misses my snark. My snarkiness. My snarkitude?

No, scratch that one.

I thought for sure I'd be stuck on Atlantis until my voice came back. If it comes back.

Carson and Tyler, the botanist, think the leaf is what caused my mysterious laryngitis. They rattled off a lot of crap about histamine and toxins, and petioles and stipules and plant hormones…which all boiled down to this: they think I'm allergic to it.

Oh joy.

They think my voice will come back on its own. In time. How much time, they don't know for sure, but probably a while. Carson tried giving me an antihistamine, which did absolutely nothing. Tyler says the plant has human hormones as well as plant hormones – whatever that means. Tyler's a jerk, but he does know his business, and he and Carson are trying to come up with some kind of serum…

I really do hate the squishy sciences. Let them get on with it. In the meantime, the galaxy doesn't wait while I can't speak.

So here I am – as I said – on another planet, still voiceless. We've met a possible ally, and they claim to have a ZedPM. Well, they described it, and it sounds like one. They can't figure out how to get it to work, so Sheppard volunteered me – to be fair, when I heard about it, I insisted on coming – to examine the device.

It _is_ a ZedPM, but I think it's drained, or nearly so. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, as Sheppard would say. Damn. I think his optimism is starting to rub off on me.

I hate that sad look he'll get in his eyes when I tell him. He'll make light of it, say it was worth a look, and at least we've gained a new ally…

Wait a minute, where's Stackhouse? He was supposed to stay with me. Not that I need a babysitter, but Sheppard's always going on about staying in pairs whenever we go off-world. Just in case. Because you never know.

What the – who the hell are you? What are you doing? Let go of me! Don't –

**Delirium**

He hasn't used any of the usual torture tricks yet. He just keeps demanding that I talk, that I tell them how to build bombs and guns and any other weapons of mass destruction they can think of.

He shows me diagrams of vehicles that I think are meant to be tanks. I almost bust out laughing. It's a good think I can't talk, because I'm not sure I could keep my mouth shut. The urge to correct people can be almost overwhelming at times.

I've tried explaining that I can't speak – I have no voice. But my hands are strapped to this chair, and all I can do is mouth at them. And they _still_ haven't caught on.

He keeps telling me to talk, that they don't want to have to hurt me. Hell, _I_ don't want them to have to hurt me either. And the fact that I haven't been beaten up, that they haven't shown me any whips or thumbscrews or hot pokers or anything like that actually scares me more. You wouldn't think a kindly, avuncular torturer would be scarier than a straightforwardly nasty one, but he is. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm terrified, and not being able to talk makes it so much worse. I have no outlet for my fear. If I could talk, I could at least insult the guy – prevaricate, anything.

But at least I can't roll over like a weakling and tell them what they want to know. This is going to be horrible, but at least I'll be able to look at myself in the mirror. If I survive, that is.

Stop that, Rodney, that's morbid. You will survive. John and Ford and Teyla will rescue you. You'll get through this just like you've gotten through everything else since you stepped through the Stargate.

Now someone is coming in, and they have – a crown? What the hell are they going to do with that, make me king? That would certainly be a novel approach to torture.

No, it's not a crown. It has wires wrapped around a framework of iron, and it looks like there are – electrodes? Or something meant to be electrodes…

Oh dear god. They're going to electrocute me aren't they. These primitive morons are going to electrocute me.

John, wherever you are, please get here quick.

I'm thrashing, pulling at my restraints, shouting at them with no sound, and they _still_ don't get it. My kindly torturer kneels in front of me and shows me the crown, handling it reverently. He explains that this will cause incredible pain without damaging my body. I'm not sure if that's comforting or not.

But all I have to do is talk, he says. Just talk.

I mouth the words again. I can't speak. I have no voice. I try my damnedest to telegraph my meaning with my eyes.

He shakes his head sadly, and tells me I _will_ talk. Then he places the crown gently on my head, and

that…that was…really painful. I mean, I had no idea it was even _possible_ to be in that much pain. It shocked me so badly that I had no breath to scream even if I had the voice to scream. Oh god, he going to

What? I can't…you're talking to me, but I can't make out the words. My eyes – my vision is blurry. Oh. I'm crying. That's why. It's hard to…I can't quite catch my breath. I ache all over. And he's only done it twice. I would have told him everything after the first time if I could have.

Oh please, give me paper and pencil and I'll write it for you. Please don't

Ow. Hurts. Don' wanna…do this anymore. Wanna go home. Can't…think. Tired. Want John. Where's John? Wanna go – oh no. Please, no. No no no

…no…

**The Flight**

Room after room after room and still no Rodney. He has to be here somewhere. He has to be. And when I find him, I'm never letting him out of my sight again. I'll happily listen to him yammer on all day and all night if we can just get him back.

I'm so much more worried because he _can't_ talk. He can't tell his captors about his hypoglycemia, or his allergy to lemons. And what will they do when they realize he can't talk? Will they decide to – no, don't think that. He can still write. Rodney will give them just enough information to keep them satisfied, to keep them from hurting him. And I'll find him, and take him back to Atlantis, and Beckett will give him that shot, and Rodney will get his voice back, and everything will be back to normal.

Or at least, as normal as things ever get.

There's someone in this room, is that – yes, that's the back of Rodney's head. I'd know it anywhere.

This door isn't even locked. Why doesn't he – oh. He's strapped to the chair. Oh god, his eyes are closed and he isn't moving. Check his pulse…his heart rate is normal, and he's breathing slowly, deeply. Undo the straps…oh, Rodney, your poor wrists. They're bruised and swollen; you must have struggled so hard. I can't see any other signs of injury, though.

Come on, Rodney, wake up. We have to get out of here.

Good, there you are, come on. Wow, your eyes are so bloodshot – no, don't struggle, Rodney, it's me – it's John. It's okay, everything's okay, I've got you now. I won't let them hurt you.

What – he's crying and panting silently, he's trying to fight me but he's so uncoordinated. Rodney, come on! It's me! Don't -

I don't think he knows me. I'm not sure he can even see me. His eyes are unfocussed, he doesn't seem to hear when I speak to him. What did they _do_ to you, Rodney?

I have to take a deep breath, ruthlessly push my fears aside and manhandle him out of the room. He can barely stand, much less walk, but he fights me weakly every step of the way.

Oh, thank god, there's Ford and Teyla. Ford can take my gun and I'll put Rodney over my shoulder in a fireman's carry. The faster we get him home, the better.

**The Return**

He's back. He's safe. Rodney's safe.

But he's not.

He just lies there on a bed in the infirmary. Carson says that physically he's okay. The bruises on his wrists are fading. The weakness and lack of coordination are gone, although he still moves slowly and carefully, as though every muscle aches.

There's no reason he shouldn't be able to speak. Carson and Tyler came up with something for the plant allergy, and they're sure it worked, but he doesn't make a sound.

He doesn't respond when I talk to him. He looks at me with such confusion and weariness, like he can't quite remember who I am, but he'd like to. It's like trying to remember – to think – actually hurts.

He seems to trust me completely, which is a little heady and more than a little scary. He follows my prompting without hesitation, even if he doesn't seem to understand what I say. He can dress himself, feed himself, goes to the bathroom when he needs to…but the rest of the time he just sits there, his face and eyes utterly blank.

The lights are on, but nobody's home.

And it's awful to see him like this. It's like there's something fundamentally wrong with the universe, there's Rodney McKay shaped hole and if it doesn't get filled soon…

I don't know if I – if Atlantis – can survive without him.

We found poor Stackhouse dumped by the Stargate, a big knot on the back of his head where someone whacked him from behind. He never saw or heard a thing.

And Rodney was nowhere to be found.

The high minister of Kinarea claimed to know nothing. He was a good liar, but his aide wasn't so good. A friendly little demonstration of Ford's P-90, and he rolled right over.

Well, it wasn't quite that easy, but he told us where to find Rodney. And we found him and brought him home.

But I'm so afraid we didn't bring all of him home.

And I don't know how much more of this I can take.

**Restlessness**

…no no no no no…

…what…

…I can't…

…no pain. There's no pain…

There's no pain. When did that happen?

I can move. My wrists aren't…I can move my arms around. That's nice. It's nice to move my arms.

I can stand up. I can walk around. I'm not…trapped…

No, I want to walk. Let me walk. I need…I need something. I don't hurt anymore, it's nice, I want to move around.

Oh. Food. Food is nice. I can eat food. Food…tastes. Yes. Food tastes nice. Very nice.

Faces. One face. Looking at me…no, don't look. Don't look. I don't want to look. When he looks at me, that's when it hurts. I don't want to hurt again.

The face isn't making me look. It's just…there. I don't have to look if I don't want to.

Now the face is making noises. They're nice noises. Friendly noises. They're different from the noises before, when I - when they –

Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Just don't.

Rodney. Is that me? Am I Rodney?

Yes. Yes, I remember, I know that. I'm Rodney.

The face makes a loud noise like "yes" and I sneak a look at it. I know that face, too. It's not the face that hurt me. I know this face. It's friendly. This face is John…

I'm Rodney. And he's John. And – and –

…oh dear god…I remember…everything…

**Hope**

This is different. Rodney isn't passive anymore, he's moving around, looking at things. He waves his arms around, smiling.

Rodney is smiling.

That weary, empty expression that made him look like an old man is gone.

He's walking out of the room, and I grab his hand to stop him, but he flinches and shakes me off with such terror…so I let him go and just follow him, walking beside him, talking to him.

We reach the mess hall, and fortunately hardly anyone is there. Those who are stare at us, but don't speak or move, for which I'm grateful. They just watch as Rodney gravitates to a plate of Athosian biscuits – crunchy things somewhere between a cookie and a scone – and picks one up. He turns it over in his hands before eating it with great and obvious enjoyment.

My heart is pounding like a jackhammer, my palms are sweating, and I hardly dare to hope…

He moves on, and I head him off. I stand in front of him and call his name.

He stops, confused and frightened, ducking his head and refusing to look at me.

I don't press it. I just stand there and talk to him, soothing words, a lot of bullshit about how much we missed him, how worried we've been…how I'll take him to the mainland when he's better, just the two of us, because I found this beautiful, quiet place next to a lake with a view to die for, and I want to show it to him. I want to share it with him.

He doesn't seem scared now. He's listening, chewing on his lower lip. He frowns, and I think I'm going to lose him again, so I say his name. Over and over.

"Rodney."

I practically pass out when he speaks, his voice rusty and hoarse from disuse.

"Is that me? Am I Rodney?"

"Yes!" I yell, and he looks up, startled. He _looks_ at me.

"I know – " he starts. He's concentrating so hard, I don't dare to move or even breathe for fear of disrupting it.

"…John. I'm Rodney. And he's John. And – "

Suddenly his face crumples and he sinks to the floor, sobbing like a child. I kneel beside him and put my arms around him, and he clings to me with desperate strength. We just sit there on the floor, in the middle of the hall, and I'm crying too.

I think he's going to be okay now.

I think _we're_ going to be okay now.

Fin


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